The Stolen Food Incident
by Jaded Expression of Euphoria
Summary: James T. Kirk doesn't have the best relationship with food and sometimes stupid things trip him up and he doesn't know how to deal. Bones knows there's something wrong with his friend, but Jim hardly tells him anything. Sometimes, they're both just left walking wrong-footed around each other. CHECK AUTHOR'S NOTE INSIDE FOR MORE INFO (Edit: this will make you sad. Deliciously sad.)


**Author's Note:** THIS IS CROSSPOSTED TO AO3. (Okay good, now that that's out of the way...) These are not my first feels on this idea, but this is the first/most-coherent time I've written them down. I though I'd share. It's my first time writing Star Trek: AOS (or otherwise) so be gentle if you comment. I welcome crit if you've got it, though. Anyway, to make it easier to understand, it _**takes place during their time at Starfleet Academy**_ , they're living in a little Starfleet owned apartment building that older students can rent instead of squeezing into the dorms with teenagers. Probably during their second semester or year. _**Jim Kirk has definitely been on Tarsus**_ , even though it's never even alluded to in the fic.

* * *

"Dammit, Jim!"

"Bones?" Jim mumbled, rolling blearily off the couch and stumbling up, toward the kitchen where his roommate was angrily frowning at him from in front of the fridge. He must have dozed off while leisure reading (something he probably shouldn't have been doing since he had two papers due at the end of next week, and a presentation to put together, with visual aid, on top of a xenolinguistics exercise booklet to complete).

"You ate that ham that was in there, didn't you?" Bones accused, pointing his finger.

"Yeah…? I was hungry after classes and I made a sandwich. It was really good, never had anything so delicious. Okay, maybe that's a lie but, definitely top tier amazing. So wherever you got it from we need to get more."

"Dammit, Jim! That was from my grandma! I was looking forward to it all day. I had the worst goddamn shift in the ER today and the only thing keeping me goin' was comin' back here for a taste of home!" Bones was flat out shouting now, disappointment in every weary droop of his furious expression. Jim felt like he'd been socked in the gut, then the guilt started creeping in.

"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry, Bones. I didn't know. Next time maybe you can leave a note or something on the fridge panel? Just so I know. If I knew, I wouldn't have even touched it! Dammit. I am so, so sorry."

Jim could feel the tears creeping up, eyes burning, throat tightening. He felt horrible. He knew intimately what it was like to look forward so desperately to something as small as a meal and then not get it, especially when you needed it most. His hands shook with panic. All he wanted was for Bones to know he was sorry, to tell Jim how to make it up to him. But this wasn't about him. This was about Bones.

"You know what, Jim. I got a better idea; how about if it's not fuckin' yours, _you_ don't _fuckin'_ touch it."

Jim flinched and looked away though he tried not to, chastising himself for it immediately. _It wasn't about him_. He swallowed thickly, hoping his voice came out steady.

"You're right. And I'm sorry. I'm always eating and I'm going to get so fat from stealing all your food. How about I order your favorite from that Thai-fusion place? I'll get all your favorites, on me tonight."

Bones gave a blustery sigh and turned away from Jim, every tense line of his body angry and defeated. It felt like a slap to the face. In fact, if Bones _had_ slapped Jim, knuckles or palm, he would have felt better than he did now.

"Don't… Dammit, Jim. Don't worry about it. I'll just go out and find something," Bones growled and marched to the door. He was still in his scrubs from Starfleet Medical and grabbed his jacket to throw on over them before leaving. Jim was sure that if the door was hinged, Bones would have slammed it behind himself.

Jim swallowed thickly again, trying to shove the lump in his throat down and resist the urge to puke. He couldn't. He promised he wouldn't. He would be better, take better care of himself. He wondered if he could call his old counselor up, if she'd mind. Probably. He couldn't inconvenience her. But she was the only one who would even understand, who knew what he had done. She'd be able to keep him from… No. He couldn't rely on her anymore. He had closed that chapter of his life a long time ago.

He would go to his room, lay down, and let himself hurt, let himself cry it out, and he'd fix this.

Bones wasn't someone he wanted to lose, accidentally, or accidentally on purpose.

* * *

It was later, Much Later, when Bones stumbled back in. He'd been out drinking. It was obvious in the unsteadiness of his steps, the casual way he stripped loudly and dropped his clothes wherever instead of placing them in the laundry bin. Jim listened to it all, half-asleep in his bed with all the lights off. He'd just barely laid down for real, ready to sleep.

He heard Bones hit a light switch in the bathroom and then there was the steady splashing of him pissing. The water in the sink ran instead of the hum of the sonics. Then there was shuffling steps, boots being dropped heavily onto the floor, and his door creaked open. Since their apartment is a refurbished one, all the interior doors were old-fashioned latch and hinge ones. Only the external door and the balcony ones were newer.

Jim felt a tentative touch to his back and he tried to respond, tried to roll over, say something. Bones needed him to.

All he accomplished was a sigh and a slight shift onto his back.

"Jim?" Bones whispered. There was another hand in his hair, petting it, and a small dip of weight on the edge of the bed.

"I don't want to wake you, not- not really, but I need to apologize f'r earlier," Bones said, still whispering. Jim could smell the hint of bourbon on his breath and it was so quintessentially Bones it comforted him. Bones's words were barely slurred, like his tongue was slower but not impeded.

"I was an ass before… before I left. I shouldn't have said the things I did, and 'm sorry. You're always welcome to anything I have. You're my friend, and I love you, and I care about you. I worry sometimes. That you'll get sick- of- of having an old, drunk, washed-up doctor with no other options as a friend. And about you. I worry about you. Too. A lot.

"I'm sorry, Jim. It's not your fault. I need to sleep though. So we'll talk more in the morning."

And with one last pat to his back, Bones was gone and Jim had been fighting the pull of unconsciousness hard enough that he had only made it easier to fall into it once Bones closed his door back around.

* * *

When Leonard stumbled out of bed the next morning, nauseous and with a steady throb behind his eyes in his temples, he found the whole apartment smelled like a breakfast rush in an old diner. The little table against the wall in the kitchen that they ate at was set with a place for one. There was an empty glass, cutlery, and even a white goddamn placemat. They didn't even own one, that he knew of.

"Bones!" Jim exclaimed happily from over at their tiny two burner stove. He had a towel thrown over one shoulder and was wearing his thick-rimmed reading glasses. Behind them, his baby blues were bright and electric, though all of him seemed to be glowing. It was almost as though he stepped out in the sun, absorbed its light, and came back inside carrying it with him. It was really all a bit much for Leonard. Especially when he was feeling a little on the shit side after last night.

"Breakfast is almost ready, if you want to sit down," Jim said and stirred something in the sizzling pan in front of him. Leonard glanced at the placemat and sat on the side without. If Jim suddenly felt the need to be classy, who was he to stand in the boy's way. It'd be good for Jim anyway, to take a real interest in food.

Jim set down the serving spoon he was using and wiped his fingers on the towel over his shoulder before swiping up a cup and filling it with coffee from the machine. Leonard expected him to add sugar and cream to it, the way Jim liked his coffee, but instead Jim turned toward him. There was a flicker of confusion and then the pain of rejection in Jim's eyes, his sunny smile faltering for just the barest of seconds. Then he was bouncing forward and setting the coffee down in front of Leonard with an expert flair. Without letting anything but overtly cheerful smiles show, Jim bent down a tiny bit and spun the placemat around, sliding it in front of Leonard. The glass followed.

The toaster dinged and Jim lunged for it, removing perfectly browned slices of thick, wheat toast from inside. He scraped a generous portion of real butter over them and placed them on a small plate. Leonard picked up his coffee and sipped at it, finding it was neither lukewarm nor scalding. In fact, it was at just the right burning temperature. He sipped some more.

Moments later, Jim was standing next to him and setting down a dinner plate heaped full of food, next to it he placed the small plate of toast. A jar of strawberry jam followed.

"Jimbo? What is all this?" Leonard asked when Jim just stood next to him as though waiting for Leonard to start eating before serving himself.

There on his plate was the makings of a typical, hearty, perfect southern breakfast with a flaky biscuit smothered in white gravy, a generous serving of corned beef hash, and thick slices of ham crowding for space.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Jim lunged for the oven and pulled out a small bowl. Leonard caught a glimpse of a small pot of something staying warm inside.

Jim carefully set down the bowl and Leonard felt his throat constrict. Inside was grits and it smelled just like how his momma made it.

"Jim…" Leonard swallowed, fought to speak, felt his accent getting thicker. "Wha-? I- I don't understand. What is all of this?"

"I uhm, I called your mom last night," Jim said and scratched at the base of his skull, looking sheepish. "I kind of forgot about timezones too. But she was nice, really nice. I explained the situation and I mean it took a little convincing — she kept trying to talk me out of it, saying you weren't really mad and that I shouldn't fret but anyway, I was able to get her to overnight what was left of that ham from your grandma. I wired the money for it. And I got to talking with her, she's really too easy to talk to, your mom. Anyway, when I had kind of run out of steam I was able to ask for her help with what to do with it. She sent me all kinds of recipes. I hope everything tastes okay. I had to try twice on the grits; I've never cooked them before and I congealed the first attempt. It was all lumpy and sticking to the bottom of the pot. Well, uhm, yeah…"

Leonard tiredly rubbed one eye and ignored the streak of wetness left behind on his hand. He hadn't had a homecooked, _real_ meal like this in too long. Sure he and Jim would cook up what they could when they could, but nothing like this. This was the kind of labor of love he had known he would be giving up by joining Starfleet and moving to San Francisco. This was above and beyond, even.

"Aren't you gonna try it?" Jim asked and his voice suddenly sounded so small and quiet Leonard only wanted to pull the other man down and squeeze love and appreciation into him if it killed him. Which brought him to the whole reason behind this breakfast. It was obvious to Leonard that Jim was doing this to apologize for eating his food. Because of the mean-spirited words Leonard had thrown at him. Jim had taken them to heart and desperately scrambled overnight to fix what hadn't been broken.

Leonard _needed_ to hug his overly-generous friend close. But Jim might dance away, subtly reject him with a smile, uncomfortable with the affection. Instead, he nodded furiously, taking up his spoon first for a bite of the grits. Buttery, thick, with a sprinkle of pepper and made with half milk and just a hint of garlic. It tasted like a weekend home, slow mornings and lazy conversation with people he loved.

"Jim—" Leonard faltered, unsure how to express just how much this meant to him. He had to set his spoon down. He tried a different topic. "Where's your breakfast?"

Jim's smile dropped before coming back, smaller, less radiant. His gaze shuttered. He took a step back.

"I actually ate earlier. Wasn't sure if I'd be able to wait. I was starving, you know. Like always," Jim joked, slinging his bookbag up and over his shoulder from where it sat in the chair closest to the door out. Everything about him seemed disingenuous. He was lying, and Leonard knew it.

"Hey, I've got to head to the library, so enjoy. I hope I didn't burn anything that wasn't supposed to be," Jim said and chuckled dryly, turning to make his exit.

' _Wait!'_

' _I'd enjoy it more with company.'_

' _Please join me, Jim.'_

' _I'm sorry.'_

All these things he wanted to say but he barely managed a strained, "thank you" called at Jim's back before the door slid shut, separating them.

And Leonard did enjoy his breakfast, every last bite (the jam had rhubarb!), even though the whole time he felt as though his friendship with Jim had been shifted slightly in the wrong direction (like that time his dormmates in med-school had shifted all of his belongings one inch the to the left so Leonard came back from break feeling just a general sense of wrongness until one of them finally cracked and told him what they'd done)

* * *

Jim never touched any of his food again after that. Not unless he had explicit permission twice over.

Leonard felt horrible every time he remembered why.


End file.
